


Last Call

by rhysndtrash



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Diners, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-15
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-08-31 02:52:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8560792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhysndtrash/pseuds/rhysndtrash
Summary: Nessian Modern AU: Cassian Montem proves two things every night, as he walks in seventeen minutes before the Nocte Diner closes: he is devoted to his music and he is immune to Nesta Archeron’s death glare. He slouches in his customary booth drinking his plain black coffee and flirts shamelessly while Nesta fights to balance a job, piles of homework, and a changing relationship with her two younger sisters.





	1. Chapter 1

Nesta was getting the check of the last table of Nocte Diner, where she had worked for four years now—to help pay for college and her sister, Elain's, flower shop—, when he arrived.  
He always came at this time of the night. Every day. Always seventeen minutes before her shift ended. The stranger just sat there, smelling faintly of alcohol and cinnamon and apple trees, and wrote on this large black notebook, and, ah! Ordered coffee, like he was trying to now.  
The stranger raised a hand in her direction, and she sighed. Usually, she let her coworker handle him, but Farah was sick today—and if Nesta was being honest, was probably getting fired soon, with the amount of sick days she'd been taking lately—and she was the only one here at this time of the night.  
Resigning herself to her fate, she walked up to her potential customer, trying—and failing miserably—to remain cheerful. “Good evening, sir.” she said politely. “How may I help you?”  
The man smirked at her, looking her over as if assessing an opponent, and drawled out, “Just coffee, please.”  
Great. Apparently he was still on a diet that consisted of alcohol and coffee and nothing else and she was just about done with it. Still, she nodded her response to him, turning back to the counter of the diner and reaching for the coffee pot on it and one of the mugs inside the cabinets around the place. She poured the beverage inside the mug and turned back to the customer, checking the round wall clock for the time. Ten minutes before closing time.  
As she got to the table and placed the coffee in front of the man, she found him writing in that notebook again. She looked at it, just for a moment, and saw that it was a notebook for sheet music, those with four lines at a time—she didn't really know what they were called. Nesta didn't know much about music, only that it made her feel things she wasn't comfortable with. She stuck with hearing them when she went out with Feyre or Elain—but then again that kind of music didn't make her feel anything. Not the way old music did.  
“I'm trying to write my album.” the man volunteered, catching her gaze. She almost blushed, almost gave in to that burning feeling when the attractive man caught her in the midst of paying the least bit of attention to him, but held strong. She was not a blushing schoolgirl. She was Nesta Archeron and no man would have her as a giggling, fumbling mess.  
“Don't care.” she tried to sound as cheerful as she had earlier, if only to be a bit ironic.  
He laughed, crossing his arms behind his head, and declared, “You don't like me very much, do you, princess?”  
Nesta didn't know what to do next. She had never been hostile to a client before, never said she “didn't like them” straight to their face, even when they had been gross truck-driving sexist pigs. She liked to keep her head down—though Farah had once walked in on her spitting on their coffee—, and her paychecks coming. She didn't think it'd be a good idea to start now. Yet, something about this stranger in particular set her off, pushed all the wrong buttons. “Not particularly.” she bit her lip, regretting speaking as soon as the words came out. “And don't call me that.”  
But the man just smirked at her again and she considered damning him to hell right then and there. She turned around, heading back to her place behind the counter as he called, “Don't I even get your name?”  
“So you can what? Jerk off to it?” she said over her shoulder. Oh, she was lucky her boss wasn't here.  
The man just laughed from his place at one of the booths, and continued to write on his notebook.  
Nesta looked around one last time. The place was dead, of course. It was—she checked the clock—five minutes before closing time and people had common sense. Well, most people. The man with the black notebook didn't seem to get the message.  
Theya, the diner's cook and one of the few people she could actually stand in this place, announced she was taking off. Nesta checked the kitchen. It was clean, no dishes at the sink. She smiled at her friend as she left and said, “See you tomorrow!”  
She was cleaning up the counter when it came time to close up. She sighed. The man was still sitting at his booth, obliviously writing at his notebook and drinking coffee. She approached him.  
Nesta cleared her throat. He looked at her, a bit startled, and smirked.  
Oh, she wanted to wipe it off his face. But she maintained her mask of disinterest and slight annoyance. “We're closing.” she said flatly, not really sure how to do this, say this. “Last call.”  
He burst out laughing. “Oh, you're not very good at this, are you?”  
“At what? Sending you off on your ass?” she bit out, eyes narrowed.  
“No,” he smirked again. “I'm guessing you're very good at that.” he sipped his coffee again, closing his notebook and sighing. “I mean, you're not very good at asking people to leave. Politely.”  
Nesta huffed, rolling her eyes. She grabbed the mug of coffee out of his hands and said, “Please, sir, we're closing in two minutes.” she tried not to roll her eyes as the words got through her lips and looked him in those dark orbs that seemed to glow like Christmas lights. “I have to ask you to leave.” the politeness in her voice was so fake she almost cringed.  
The man laughed. “Now, that's better, isn't it?”  
She flipped him off, turning back to the counter one more time.  
“Fine, I'm going.” he said. “I'm going.”

 

The next day, Nesta was working a double shift. She opened in the afternoon, unlocking the double doors of the retro Diner and heading into the kitchens to start making coffee. This time of the day, people always came in hungry for burgers and coffee and milkshakes, and she was the one to do at least one of those things. Mostly though, she stayed out of the kitchens, getting orders and talking to costumers.  
Most would think that this job didn't fit her very well—and they would be right. Nesta didn't particularly enjoy talking to people, especially not the rude, truck-driving pigs that came in to the diner most days. But it was the only way she had of paying for college and, most importantly, Elain's flower shop, so she ignored that and kept going.  
Nesta went around the diner, cleaning the already spot clean tables with a cloth, humming under her breath. She was almost done when she got to one of the booths to the right of the counter, the one where the man from the last night had been sitting. And there, crammed between two cushions, was a small note in that strange four line paper.  
Your eyes are endless  
I hope your heart knows its song  
Even when you are faithless  
I hope that you keep pushing on

Call me, Princess  
Cassian  
His number followed.  
Nesta huffed. What the hell. When the hell had—well, Cassian apparently—written this and how had she not seen it? And how did he even know she would read this? Oh, Gods, the mere thought of the lyrics written in the note made her want to vomit. It was not that they were bad, exactly. But they were written for her, or about her, or reminded him of her in such a way that he felt the need to show them to her, and that she couldn't stomach. Gods, Gods, Gods, what had she ever done to deserve this kind of shit?  
Those lyrics though. What did they mean? What did they mean about her? They had to have some meaning towards her, didn't they? The first line was pretty simple—your eyes are endless. Which she guessed was a compliment, but it could be twisted into something else, because there could be so much pain and sadness in ones eyes, especially if they went on forever. She knew that very well.  
The second line was was the one she didn't comprehend—I hope your heart knows its song. Because if he knew her, at all, he would know that there was no song in Nesta Archeron's heart. There was passion and iron and even a little bit of warmth, but no music, not ever. But the thing was—he didn't know her. That was the whole point.  
She didn't bother studying the last two lines. This wasn't worth her time, and anyway, she needed to finish preparing the Dinner for clients. Nesta folded the note and stuffed it in her back pocket, cleaning the last two booths before turning back to the counter. She grabbed the coffee pot and poured herself a mug, sipping at it and rejoicing at the bitter taste of it.

 

That night, seventeen minutes before closing time, he came again, notebook and guitar in tow. He sat at the at his usual booth, wearing his usual ripped jeans and leather jacket, and crossed his legs at the ankles beneath the table. She didn't look, didn't waste a minute of her time on him or his presence in her life—and how annoying was that, that he could be in her life just like that.  
Nesta grabbed the bill off the table she'd been standing over, nodding politely as the costumers got up to leave and wishing them a good night.  
She headed over to the counter, putting the money from the couple into the cash register, and folding the generous tip they'd left her into her back pocket. They were regulars, the Sadoi couple, and always sat in Nesta's side of the dining area. They tipped wonderfully and were polite and way too high profile for this greasy place but Mr. Sadoi insisted he liked the pie here much better than anywhere else in the city.  
She guessed she couldn't ague with that—while Theya's cooking wasn't anything extraordinary, her baking experience was simply amazing. She made the best sweets Nesta had ever eaten. Especially if it kept the high tips coming her way.  
Farrah was clicking her nails at the counter, sitting at one of the retro red stools, popping her gum in that way that made Nesta want to kill a man, when she tapped the tall, blonde girl on the shoulder. “Hey, Farrah,” she tried to sound as un-annoyed as she could, though the mere thought of the other girl made her want to jump off a bridge. “Could you take the last table? I'm going to wrap it up.”  
Farrah looked at her before popping a big, pink ball of gum and clicked her tongue, but stood up, grabbing her notepad and pencil for the order he would not make. Nesta rolled her eyes.  
Two minutes later, Farrah came back to get Cassian's coffee, and headed back to his table. She eyed them with the corner of her eyes. They were talking, though she couldn't hear a word of what they were actually saying. Cassian's smooth smiles were nowhere to be that night, though. He seemed—detached. A bit sad, too.  
Not that she cared.  
Nesta looked away, feeling as if she'd been staring in on something private all of the sudden. There was something in his eyes, something deep and hidden away and buried under the charm and the drinking he seemed to do so often, that she couldn't help but relate to. And understand without even knowing. And it was too much for her to think about right now.

 

For the next few weeks, Nesta didn't even talk to him. Cassian would come, always at the same time every night, and sit at his booth, and Farrah would take his order. But there seemed to be something missing in the man's eyes, in his demeanor, like a spark that had gone out. Nesta would watch from afar as he wrote into his black notebook, scribbles fast and furious, never saying a word, never approaching, never offering more than a look.  
She sometimes found herself wondering, in times when her shift was slow and she had nothing to do, what could've happened to him that the light could simply go out of his eyes like that. It seemed so sad, so hopeless that a young heart could be discouraged so. And she ached to know why. But she shook it off as quickly as she came back to her senses, because it was not her business and she didn't care anyway.  
Tonight, a chilly Tuesday night, the diner was slow and empty. Farrah had taken another sick day, claiming her cramps had her on bed rest. Nesta would've respected that without question had it come from anyone else, but she knew it was a lie the moment it came out of her boss's mouth.  
She sighed, eyes scanning the empty tables one last time before she got up and headed to the kitchen.  
Theya was taking a pie that smelled like cinnamon and apples out of the old, large oven. “Hmm,” Nesta said as she entered the warm room. “It smells amazing, Thee.”  
Theya had flour splashed around her honey golden cheek, and smiled so widely it reached her coal black eyes as she said, “Thanks, Nes,” she dumped the hot pie onto the counter and took off the big oven mitts she had been wearing. “It's your favorite, too. Apple pie. With walnuts.”  
“Yum.” Nesta smiled at her. Theya was about the only person who got away with calling her Nes—besides her sisters, of course. Elain had started it when they were young, and baby Feyre could not pronouce Nesta's name correctly. “Leave me a piece, if you can,” she said. “I'll pay for it, I swear.”  
“You always do.” Theya started putting all the dishes into the sink, where Ilvyn—the cook apprentice she had taken under her wing when the diner had begun to make a little bit more money—was waiting to wash them. “Hey, when is the next time you have a day off?”  
Nesta narrowed her eyes, because every time Theya asked her one of these questions she ended up in one of those inexplicably uncomfortable situations, because she actually felt like using her free time to focus on school and if she answered she would definitely not be doing that. But she couldn't not answer, and she had to admit, as painful as those moments could be, moments she had with her friend more than made up for it. So she said, “In a few weeks.” she checked the calendar on her phone, before adding, “Three weeks from now, Thursday.”  
“Perfect.” Theya ran a hand through her wild curls, trying to pin them down to her head a little bit. Mostly, they stayed up and all over the place. “We're going to the Falling Night Club that night, then.”  
“Oh, are we?” Nesta began saying, but voices sounded from the room outside and she moved to get back into the open part of the diner. “We'll talk about this later.”  
“There's nothing to talk about. We're going—” Theya called out.  
Nesta went over to the costumers to get their orders, serving them coffee and offering them a piece of fresh-out-of-the-oven apple pie. She was practical and polite, already tired, even two hours before closing time. She thought of the three lists of exercises of three different classes waiting for her at home, and sighed. She had to turn them all in by the end of the week, but had barely touched them.  
The hours went by slowly and tortuously, and Nesta almost laughed at the irony of how much she hated slow days even though she had extreme displeasure in talking to strangers.  
She was waiting for it when it happened this time. Though Cassian when walked into the diner, it was earlier than usual. Well, five minutes earlier, but earlier anyway. He sat at his usual booth, tossing his guitar to the side and opening his notebook, already scribbling away. He never seemed to stop, did he? Shouldn't he be done by now? He'd been coming here and writing for at least three months. Huh.  
Nesta headed to his table with a mug and a pot of coffee already in hand, notepad and pen stuffed into her pocket. “Good night,” she said politely, willing herself to remain calm and unbothered by him. She poured him a cup of coffee and offered it to him. “What can I get you?”  
“Well, how 'bout a smile, princess?” Cassian had a flicker of a smirk on his face, a gleam in his eyes, but she could see there was still something missing in it.  
She ignored him, simply saying, “I thought I told you not to call me that.” before sighing and adding, “Do you want anything else?” and before he could say anything else, she added, “That I can provide from Nocte Dinner.”  
“Oh, you're no fun.” He pouted a bit, and she thought, for a moment, that he looked cute when he did that, before she realized what she was thinking and shook her head. “What do you recommend?”  
Nesta startled at the question. She got it enough times she was used to it by now, but when he asked—it just seemed so personal, so honest. She cleared her throat. “Well, Theya's apple pie is the best in the city, if you want to try.”  
“I'll have that, then.”  
She went to get him a piece and got back with a delicious looking slice of apple pie with vanilla ice cream on top, and placed it in front of him. “Wow,” Cassian said, “This smells amazing.” he took a bite off the slice and moaned, a deep, sinful sound that Nesta never wanted to hear again. “It tastes even better.” He took another bite before saying, “Tell the cook Cassian loved her pie.”  
Nesta snorted. “As if Theya needs any more inflating her ego.”  
Cassian smirked at her little joke. “Oh?” he gestured for her to sit on the other side of the booth, which she blatantly ignored with a huff and a click of her tongue, and took another bite. “What about you? Can I compliment you or is your ego going to be bigger than this diner if I try?”  
“Oh, stuff it, Cassian.” she said, and his name felt sensual and sweet against her mouth. She shook the feeling away with a shiver, and wondered what she was still doing standing here, talking to this man. He intrigued her for some reason, unsettled her. He seemed to enjoy making her uncomfortable, too, making her squirm.  
He just smirked at her.

 

The next day, Farrah didn't come to work again. Nesta found herself waiting for the man in the ripped jeans and leather jacket, if only because she knew she would have to deal with him again that night and would probably have to kick him out. She didn't let herself feel anything more than that, didn't let it even graze her mind or heart.  
By 2:43am, he walked in, in all his guitar carrying glory.  
Oh, great.  
“Hello there, peach.” he said as she approached his table. And with that line, and that line only, he managed to get her as annoyed as she could possibly get. She rolled her eyes, dramatically so he could see clearly that he had no effect over her whatsoever. He just smirked, though, and crossed his arms behind his head in a movement so lazy and comfortable she felt like kicking him out then and there.  
“Good evening, Cassian.” she said, sighing. “What can I get you?”  
“Just coffee, ma'am.” he drawled out, mock serious.  
Nesta rolled her eyes again, pouring him a cup of coffee. He thanked her, sipping his drink and looking at her like he knew all the secrets crawling under her iron clad mind. Looking at her like he could unlock them from inside and—well, knowing her luck and guys like him, spill them all over the world. She looked away.  
“So when are you planning on calling me anyway?” he crossed his legs like he always did, at the ankles, and slid further down at the cushions of the booth, looking at her with those sensual, secret-finding eyes again.  
“I'm sorry?” Nesta startled.  
“Oh, please don't tell me my note to you wasn't wasted on that other waitress.” Cassian drawled out. “I poured my heart out.” he was so dramatic, so completely ridiculous she couldn't do anything but stare at him, face unamused and unimpressed.  
“You look so sexy when you're ignoring me, princess.”  
Okay, this was as annoyed as she could possibly get.  
“Oh, Cassian,” she said, sweetness dropping from her voice like venom, “You couldn't handle me if I came with a user manual.”  
He simply burst out laughing. “Finally. A reaction!”  
She huffed, rolling her eyes at him, looking as insulted as she could be. Cassian just smirked at her again, and it was such a dirty, dirty look, so sensual, that she wanted to rip right off his face right then and there. As it was, she put her hands on her hips and looked at him with her most indignant stare. “Well, maybe,” she started, eyes fixed on his like she could set him on fire by staring at him too hard. “I just don't like you enough for reactions.”  
“Well, maybe,” he mimicked her. “You'd like me a little bit more if—”  
“You weren't always coming in at closing time, drunk, and only ordering coffee?” Nesta cut him off, voice flat and as annoyed as ever.  
“Eh, that too.” Cassian relented. He uncrossed his arms from behind his head and pointed a finger at her. “I did order that piece of pie once,” he reminded her. She smacked his finger away and resisted the urge to do the same to the back of his head. “And how do you even know I'm drunk anyway?”  
“Oh, please.” she just rolled her eyes for what felt like the hundredth time that evening and breathed out a little laugh that made Cassian's eyes shine—as if it was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard. “You come in here smelling of vodka every night and you think your waitress isn't going to notice?”  
“Well, I guess not,” he relented once more. “But what I meant earlier, was that maybe you'd like me a little more if you gave yourself the chance to get to know me.”  
Nesta breathed out another one of her little laughs, and Cassian's eyes lit right up again. It was such a monumental difference, such a huge impact on his hazel eyes, usually so tired and bottomless, that she found herself staring into them again. She put a hand over her mouth as she stopped laughing and looked away, embarrassed she'd let herself even go there once more.  
What was it about this man, this stranger, that had her completely speechless when she was always all wits and cutting words? What was it about his eyes that had her gazing into them like a lovesick puppy or wondering about his life and what had gone so wrong in it that he spent his nights alone in a diner writing endlessly in a music notebook? She hated musicians, hated boys like him with their smirks and their smartass comments and their flirting, hated the little note he had left her and the fact that she had kept it on her desk drawer at home.  
“Oh, I know you well enough.” she said, throwing him a look that clearly said she didn't think she needed to know anything else about him.  
“Oh?” Cassian turned in his seat so he could look at her without craning his neck, and crossed his arms over his chest. “Really?” his smile looked almost feral, like it could devour her whole, and his eyes were twinkling with plain mischief. “What's my job? My last name? Where do I live?”  
Nesta huffed. “I don't need to know any of this things to know that you are a self righteous, self entitled rich—”  
“See, you're already wrong.” he drawled out, smirking. “I'm flat broke.”  
She clicked her tongue. “And that's what I mean.” she gestured to him. “You are impossible.”  
And then, she promptly walked off to finish wrapping things up for the evening.

 

Three weeks passed by as the shedding of leaves and the soft breezes of Fall turned into cold nights that had Nesta hiding in the warmth of the kitchen every time the diner was empty or slow. Every night Cassian came and every night Farrah took his order, and every night he had the same disappointed, tired look on his face.  
That night, though, as Cassian stepped inside, door clanging behind him, his eyes were shinning with a new sort of light, a new sort of life in them she had never seen before. In fact his whole face seemed more jovial and happy and somehow accomplished. She wanted to ask, wanted to know, wanted to go to him and understand him, finally, but she knew nothing good would ever come of that. So Nesta stayed well away from his table as Farrah went to take his order and pour him his coffee, continuing to clean up the place and preparing to close it.  
She was leaning over one of the booths next to the big glass windows on the right corner of the place, when she heard it. A giggle. She wasn't looking at them or anything, but the mere sound made her cringe. Nesta glanced over at Cassian's booth, where he was chatting with Farrah. The other girl had a hand on his bicep, and kept—giggling as he talked smoothly to her, hand twiddling with a pen atop his notebook. It was clear to her that they were flirting, and by Farrah's red cheeks, that he was good at it.  
Nesta didn't like it. Not one bit.  
A low snarl came out of her throat and she startled herself. Where did that come from? What did she care who Cassian flirted with?  
She sent a silent prayer to any of the many Gods that could be listening in so that nobody had heard it, but as she turned around, Theya was looking at her from the doorstep that separated the kitchen from the rest of the diner with a knowing look that told her she would have no rest after this.  
Oh, great.  
She made sure to keep herself busy and well out of the kitchen, but as Farrah's giggling continued she felt she had no choice but to go sit with Theya by the warm ovens and talk about anything other than the man with the guitar and the little backstabbing—  
Nesta really, really needed to clear her mind. And probably have some of the diner's ice cream—which wasn't exactly allowed, but she would pay for it.  
She walked into the kitchen with a serious, no-nonsense face, putting her notepad, pen and the cloth she'd been using to wipe the tables on the counter before facing Theya, who was piling plates in a cupboard—or had been, when she entered. Now, the raven-haired girl was looking at her with mirth in her eyes and a little smirk that could rival Cassian's own.  
“Don't even—” Nesta begun.  
“What?” Theya laughed a little.  
Nesta groaned and went to the fridge, grabbing the vanilla ice cream—not her favorite, but it would do—and two bowls and spoons. She went over to the three mismatched chairs at the back of the kitchen—one floral, one bright red and one a simple and casual black—, and sat down at the one closest to the wall. She served herself some ice cream and offered the pint and bowl to Theya. “On me.”  
“Well, I can't refuse that.”  
They sat in silence for a while, munching on their ice cream. Then—  
“Nes,” Theya started, looking at her with those soft coal black eyes that bore wholes through her head. She looked anywhere but at them, and kept eating her ice cream, clinging to the bowl as if it was her life source. “What are we doing, eating ice cream at the badly lit kitchen of a crappy diner?”  
“Hey, don't knock Nocte Diner,” Nesta said pitifully. “I've heard some pretty rockin' chicks work over there.”  
“Ha.” Theya set her bowl down on the counter beside her and turned to Nesta again, with a pleading look to be serious for a second. “Nesta, what are you doing? I've seen you interact with what's-his-face, and he's all over you. Why brush him off and wait around for him to be interested in someone else and then act all jealous all of the sudden?”  
“Thee, can we please not—”  
“No, I'm having this conversation with you, whether you like it or not.” the raven-haired girl said, eyes dead serious. Nesta put her bowl down, suddenly not in the mood for ice cream anymore, but very, very uncomfortable and—angry. Not at Theya—no, her friend didn't deserve any of her anger—, not at Farrah, and not even at Cassian, but at the world, at everything, at herself. Gods, she hated this feeling, how familiar it felt. “I know the last time you got involved with a guy it didn't end well and I know your father pretty much killed any good views you could have on men and that you're all kinds of fucked up—”  
“Hey!”  
“Just—let me finish.” Theya said, knowing she would have to pay for that last comment later. No man, woman or child insulted Nesta Archeron and got away with it, no matter how close they were. “As I was saying—” she put a hand on top of Nesta's own before going on. “I know this is hard for you. But I wouldn't want you to miss out on a chance because you can't trust a guy right off the bat.”  
“But that's the thing, Thee. I don't trust him.” Nesta responded before she could even realize what she was saying. “And I don't like him.”  
“Right.” Theya said sarcastically, rolling her eyes at her. She seemed to give up, though, because the little tension mark around her eyes and between her eyebrows disappeared and she reached for her ice cream again. Nesta didn't feel like eating still, like her hunger had gone away with the anger that seemed to flow out of her in waves.  
“I don't.” Nesta insisted.  
Theya simply sighed and said, “Nesta Archeron, you are a lot of work. I hope you know that.”

 

Nesta woke up that afternoon as a particularly cold wind flew in through the window and a shiver ran down her spine. She stirred from her place in her desk—where she had fallen asleep on top of her school notebooks—and rubbed at her eyes, yawning. There was a mug of cold coffee to her left that almost seemed appealing enough to pick up as her head throbbed with the remains of a headache from the past evening and her neck cracked from being crammed at the wrong angle all night.  
Instead, Nesta sighed and stood up, stretching her stiff joints and cracking her neck. She checked her phone for any messages. There was one from Theya—confirming that they were going to the Falling Night Club that evening—and two from her sister, Feyre.  
Good morning, Nes. I feel like I haven't seen you in forever! Some of my friends are coming over today and I thought maybe you'd like to come. Elain will be here with a plus one. Apparently she has a new boyfriend. Did you know?  
She reread the text again and again, unbelieving of the information it provided her. Elain had started dating someone and hadn't even bothered to tell her? Sure, she'd been buried in her job and schoolwork lately, but she was still just a phone call away.  
Nesta remembered a time when Elain had wanted her validation on absolutely everything, from her clothes choice to the choice of flowers in her garden to her choice in men. But her sister was all grown up now, she guessed, and even bonds as deep as theirs could not resist the strain of the separation of college and work and, well, adult life.  
That was not to say that they weren't still close. They were, a lot. Elain called her almost everyday to check on her, would probably be the only person to realize something was wrong if she went missing or something—well, besides Theya—, but she left some details out of the conversation, apparently. And today, Nesta was going to find out why.  
She checked her clock. It was still a bit early to head over to Feyre and Rhys' place, so she went into the kitchen of her cramped apartment, preparing some coffee and getting a mug and a bowl from one of her cupboards. She poured in some cereal into her bowl—that one with high sugar content and little marshmallows in them—, and added milk before grabbing a spoon and heading to the worn couch in her living room.  
Nesta turned on her small, old television and placed her favorite movie—Mr. Bean's Holiday—into her DVD player before settling comfortably into the couch. She felt herself relax as she laughed along with movie skits.  
Two hours, two cups of coffee, and a movie and half later—of course, after the first one, she had had to watch the original one, too—she realized maybe it was time to head over to Feyre's.  
Nesta stood up, stretching once more, and headed for her closet. She changed from her work clothes—which she still had on, since she couldn't be bothered to change before studying last night and then she'd fallen asleep on top of her books—to grey jeans and a red cropped top, before reaching for a black wool coat and putting it over her shoulders.  
She grabbed her purse—an ugly, oversized monstrosity—on her way out and left for Feyre's. It was well away from her apartment, on the rich side of the city—since her sister's boyfriend was filthy rich and apparently couldn't be bothered to live at Feyre's old place, which had been just around the corner. She'd have to take the train, but she didn't mind that much, since her oversized bag carried within it—among other things—the book she was currently reading.  
Nesta got there forty minutes later—just before it started to rain, as she found out later. She knocked on Feyre's apartment door and waited until her sister came to the door.  
“Nesta!” Feyre hugged her and Nesta smiled at her slightly. “How are you? I feel like I haven't seen you in ages!”  
“Hey.” she said, stepping forward as Feyre beckoned her inside. “I'm okay. I'm sorry I haven't been in touch much, I've been so busy with work and school—”  
“Oh, don't worry about it,” Feyre brushed her off, putting a hand on her shoulder and saying, “We can catch up today. Like we always do.”  
That almost earned her a smile.  
Her sister lead her into the living room of the big, beautifully decorated apartment—there were paintings all over it, and Nesta recognized them as Feyre's, and felt her chest build up in pride a little bit—from where, as she approached through the short halls, voices were coming from. She thought she heard Elain and, despite having spent the last forty minutes in a crammed train, smiled.  
The living room was bright and colorful—with ivory walls that seemed to stretch on forever and neon pillows and large red couches that looked as comfortable as they were fancy, stained black and yellow glass tables in between them.  
Sitting at one of the three couches were a couple—she'd met the girl before, Feyre's best friend, Morrigan, but had never seen the guy before. He was handsome, she guessed, but in a way that was too traditional, too classical for her taste somehow. Settled into one of the other couches was Rhys, holding a bag of potato chips. Elain and her boyfriend sat by his side.  
She shifted her eyes to the guy. He was red haired and elegant and handsome, the bones of his face sharp. But what caught her attention was the scar that ran along his face, from the top of his brow to his jaw and the glass eye on that side of his face. Elain had a lot to explain.  
Finally, by the large glass windows, there were a a woman and a tall man, their backs turned to her as they looked at something in the distance. There was something familiar about him, but besides the color of his shoulder length hair and the nice view of his backside she had no way of knowing who he was.  
“Everyone, this is Nesta, my sister.” Feyre announced to the room of people, pulling their attention away from the large television in front of the couches. Then, she turned to her sister, hand on Nesta's shoulder as she said, “Nesta, this is everyone.”  
The man standing by the window turned around and—  
“Cassian?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After they deal with the awkward situation at Feyre's, Nesta goes out, and Cassian makes a surprise visit to Nesta's apartment.

Cassian was looking at her with pure shock in his eyes, a hand buried in his shoulder length hair and the other in the pocket of the cargo pants he was wearing instead of the usual ripped jeans. He seemed livid, as if this surprise was almost too much for him, as if he'd had too many of them already in his life. But it was a hopeful look, like something good had just happened, like this was the best news.   
Nesta's own mind was reeling, wondering what the hell was going on. What was he doing here, and how did he know her sister?  
“I'm sorry,” Feyre asked, puzzled, a hand still on Nesta's shoulder. “Do you guys know each other?”  
“Um,” Her sister didn't even know how to answer that. Because they did, and they didn't. She saw him everyday, talked to him almost every week, shared with him words and time and even some laughs—even if they were at his expense—but they didn't truly know each other, not in the true meaning of the word. Not the passion that rushed beneath their skin and the vastness of their minds and the pain that coated their hearts. Nesta didn't understand why his faults made him whole and why his strengths made him sturdy and why his cockiness made him absolutely impossible to deal with. “Yes.”  
Feyre continued to look at her, waiting for further explanation, but her sister didn't offer any more.  
Instead, it was Cassian who said, “Nesta here works at my favorite diner.”  
Rhysand snorted, putting the potato chips down and crossing his arms. He looked at Cassian in disbelief, shaking his head slowly with a look of amazement in his violet eyes. “That place you disappear to every night after your shows?”  
His friend just smirked at him with a look in his eyes and turned back to Nesta, who was assessing him like a tiger would glance over prey, eyes playing with her meal, pushing and pulling and pressing buttons to see if it would give. She wanted to leave, wanted to turn back and run away from this uncomfortable situation, but she knew she couldn't. And, perhaps, she was a little curious, too. Because she might not know this man, but she knew her sister and if there was one thing she had learnt in her life—the hard way—was how to make healthy and genuinely good relationships in life and if this man was in Feyre's life, if he was her—her friend, he wasn't what Nesta had originally thought.   
“So,” Nesta offered to him, still a bit in shock, still playing with her words and thoughts and feelings. She looked him over, from the lines of his elegant face to the brown combat boots, crossed over each other as he leaned against the wall, ever relaxed, and begged herself to be patient. “That's why you're always drunk when you come 'round Nocte.”  
“Oh, princess, you don't want to know the reasons I drink.” Cassian joked, but she sensed the truth behind his words and almost raised her eyebrows, before she realized she didn't particularly care.  
Feyre seemed so lost that Nesta almost took pity on her, but she didn't feel like explaining her own friend to her. Let her deal with it. “Um,” her sister's voice was hesitant, but strong, and she kept looking back and forth between Cassian and Nesta. “I don't understand, you know each other? But you never said anything.”  
“Well, I, for one, didn't know she was your sister,” Cassian moved from his place against the wall, seeming to unfreeze, finally, and sat in the empty couch to the left of the television, moving his hands to his hair to put it up in a messy bun close to the nape of his neck. Gods, he looked sexy with his hair back like that. “Or her name, huh, Nesta?”  
Oh, fuck.  
Her name sounded sinful, dirty, completely wrong in his mouth. Nesta suppressed the will to shiver and forced a roll of her eyes, forced it to remain completely in control of herself, to remain untouched by his charm and his words and his gods awful looks.  
Feyre looked at Nesta with the same questioning gaze as before and she shook herself out of her reverie, saying, “Hey, don't look at me,” she shrugged out of her wool coat, finally, placing it on the nearest surface—the arm of one of the three couches—and putting her hands inside her jeans pockets. “I didn't know the idiot was your friend.”  
Rhysand and that girl—Morrigan—burst out laughing at her comment, but she didn't gloat in the moment, didn't feel accomplished. That comment wasn't meant for laughter, it was just the honest truth. Cassian was still wearing that ever present smirk on his face though, and it made her want to keep on saying things just to spite him.  
“But never mind that,” Nesta said rudely, eyes scanning the room until they stopped on Elain, who was looking at her with a soft, clear expression, a small smile on her face. Her golden brown hair was braided back and plaited and filled with little flowers, and she was dressed in a pink sundress that showed way too much skin for her to be wearing it during the winter months. She perked up as Nesta looked at her, saying without words how much she had missed her. “What I want to know is what's knew with Elain.”  
As Nesta smiled at her sister, and Elain saw in that action a promise. A promise of endless questioning and prying and bonding. And in response to that she found in herself only longing to tell Nesta everything and talk for hours on end and hold her, because she was her older sister and she still deserved everything from her. “Oh, Nes,” her sister said, her sweet voice dripping in adoration and love. “I've missed you!

 

Nesta was leaning against the counter of Feyre's fancy kitchen, humming one of her rare laughs at Elain. The room was elegant, as was the rest of the apartment, all off set whites with some details in dark wood. There was a white oven and dishwasher under the counters and a magnetized wall where there were hundreds of different magnets, from hearts to mini paintings to little baby bats Nesta recognized from when Elain had met Rhysand and swore he looked like them—she'd bought him those the next time she had the chance.  
“So,” Nesta started, taking advantage of the fact that they were alone now, finally. “You didn't tell me you were dating,” she tried not to sound bitter.  
“Oh, Nes,” Elain was so apologetic that Nesta wanted to take her words back, make it all normal and okay again, but she couldn't and wouldn't and needed to hear her explanation, if only to put her own heart to rest. She knew what she would say of course. That she was not a child anymore, that she had her own life now and Nesta could no longer tell her how to live it. But it would be final when she said it. “I'm sorry. I—” she hesitated, before she finally said, “I just didn't want to disappoint you.”  
“What?” Nesta set her glass of white wine down. Of all the things she could have thought her sister would say, that was nowhere near it. “Why?” she realized that didn't make much sense before she added, “Why did you think you'd disappoint me?”  
Elain sighed, taking a sip of wine and seeming to think a lot before she spoke again. “I just—I really like this guy.” she started, eyes glancing at her with a look so sincere, so desperate, so desperate for her approval that she had to put a hand on her sister's elbow to encourage her to keep going. “I really like him, Nesta. But he hasn't had the easiest life, and I didn't want for you to think that he wasn't worthy of me for some reason. I didn't want you to think I was settling for anyone like you always do, because I'm not, I swear I'm not.” She took a breath, afraid to go on but still needing to. “I know you don't trust men, and I respect that, as much as I wish you could open your heart to someone because if there's anyone who deserves it, it's you. But he's amazing, Nes. Lucien is the best man I have ever known, no matter how hard or weird or terrible his life has been before.”  
When Elain stopped talking, there was silence as Nesta considered her words with a look of both sadness—that her sister had held all this in for so long, that she felt she couldn't be honest with her, that she was... afraid of her opinion for some reason—and wonder. “Elain, I—I don't even—” she shook her head. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't make you feel like you can't tell me things because you're afraid of how I'll react.”  
“No, it's not—” her sister started. “It's not like that, Nes. I know that you'll support me no matter what I do. But sometimes I just don't want to make your life harder than it already is.”  
“But that's the thing.” Nesta said, hands gesturing widely. “It doesn't make my life harder to know that you're happy. In fact, it does the exact opposite.”  
Elain smiled. “Thank you.”  
“I can't say I like the guy, though.” Nesta screwed up her nose. “He seems—shady.”  
Elain just laughed.

 

“So, Nesta,” Cassian said, leaning back against the chair he was sitting on. They were sitting at the spacious balcony just outside the living room, looking out at the cloudless sky and the streets under it, while he tried—and failed—to maintain a conversation with her. “I didn't know you kept such good company—besides me, of course.”  
She snorted, face unimpressed and unamused, and crossed her legs.  
Nesta was ignoring him again. Of course.  
“Oh, princess, do you really think I'm afraid of that frown?” Cassian's grin was enormous, his eyes flashing with mirth as he ran a hand through his unbound hair. He studied her with those hazel eyes that seemed to drip honey, and saw behind her frown a look of pure resignation.  
“Oh, jackass, do you really think I particularly care whether you're afraid of it or not?” Nesta mimicked him, frown still in place. Her eyes were hidden behind her golden brown hair, which was mostly pulled up in a messy bun, a few strands falling from it here and there.  
He burst out laughing. “You're cute when you're trying to make fun of me.”  
Nesta rolled her eyes.  
She kicked her her feet up on the chair across from her, settling further into the deck chair and wondering where everybody was. She didn't think she could handle Cassian for much longer. Nesta took in the lines of his arms, the curves of his body, the way his hair seemed to flow in the light breeze of the open night. And she had to admit she was a bit in love with those eyes, those muscular shoulders. And it was everything she didn't want, couldn't want.  
Nesta shook her head, almost imperceptibly, just to remind herself that this was not going to happen, ever.  
“You should come hear us play sometime.” Cassian tried again, smiling charmingly at her. “I bet you'd love to take me out after watching one of our shows.”  
“I'd rather kill myself,” she snorted.  
“Oh, princess, you wouldn't want to deny the world the gift that is you, would you?” Cassian pouted and she wanted to rip it off his face. “Come on! What have you got to lose?”  
“IQ points, for starters,” Nesta shot back. “For all the marijuana and booze you drink every night I can only guess I'd be a little stupider by the time I got out.”  
“Ha-ha. Vey funny,” Cassian said, redoing the bun at the nape of his neck absentmindedly. “Well, in case you change your mind, we play original songs on Fridays.”  
“Don't worry, I won't change my mind.”  
And as he smiled knowingly, as if he knew, knew that she would go, and she wanted to say something, anything to wipe that grin off his face, but then Feyre finally arrived with Mor and Elain. And then Nesta actually thought about going. Not because she liked him or was interested in his music, but because she'd love to prove that she could resist him.

 

Nesta was standing at the bar, watching her friend flirt with some guy who needed to learn a few things about personal space—and, to be quite honest, really needed to get a haircut—, talking to the nice bartender of the Falling Night Club. She was definitely not coming here ever again, though the chick—the bartender—was pretty cool. Her name was Scaya, she had red hair and deep green eyes and the long skinny legs Nesta had always dreamed of having.  
“—and he said 'don't mind me, I'll just watch'. Like, what kind of creep does that?” Scaya laughed as she poured Nesta another shot of tequila—which she downed immediately. “Woah, slow down there, girl, you've been drinking those since you came in.”  
“Psh,” Nesta shook her off with a hand movement, “I'm very skilled at this. How do you think I survive the stupidity of frat boys at college parties?”  
“Point taken.” Scaya nodded, laughing and offering another shot, to which Nesta shook her head. “You must be quite the girl if none of them has managed to take you off the market yet.”  
“Oh, please,” Nesta scoffed.  
“Well, surely there's a reason why you're not in some guy's arms right now—”  
And before Nesta could really think about it, think about the question she dreaded so much, even in a situation like this, where she could just tell some half-assed lie and it wouldn't even matter, Theya came to her salvation. Like she always did. Unknowingly, brilliantly.  
“Nes, let's dance!” her friend said loudly, so she would be heard over the music, and pulled at Nesta's shoulder. “Come on!”  
“Well, duty calls.” she said to Scaya, tapping her glass one last time. The redheaded girl filled it with tequila, smiling sadly and Nesta downed the contents in one go, raising the cup to her lips swiftly and knocking it on the counter upside down. She waved goodbye to the bartender as she moved towards the dancefloor but Scaya had already scurried off to take care of other business.  
Nesta wasn't too fond of dancing. It wasn't that she was bad at it—she had taken ballet classes when she was little along with her sisters before, well, before they got poor—, it was more that she didn't like the feeling of people touching her from all around. She could dance in an empty room for hours, but these crowded spaces were too uncomfortable, too full.  
Still, she could do a few songs. For her friend, she could do it.  
“So, you know that bartender was totally flirting with you, right?” Theya said, nudging at her side.  
“What?” Nesta said, wide-eyed and flabbergasted.  
“That girl you were talking to. She was making the biggest bedroom eyes for you.” Theya laughed.  
“She was not.” Nesta affirmed surely, insulted by the mere insinuation. “We were just talking. Jesus Christ, Theya, does everything need to be sexual with you?”  
“No,” her friend said, and motioned for her to follow her to a quiet corner away from the frenzy of the dancefloor and the ears of Scaya, who was still serving drinks at the bar. They found a place near the smoking area, which smelled a bit funny, but was a bit quieter and few people passed through. “But apparently it's different for you.”  
Nesta groaned.  
“Oh, come on, Nes,” Theya said, a big ferocious smile on her beautiful face. “There might've not been any flirting on your side—I mean, there never is—but you can't deny the look she was giving you.”  
“Whatever.” Nesta said flatly. “I'm getting drunk.”   
She turned around to head for the bar and Theya called, “You're already drunk, silly.”  
“I'm getting drunk-er.”

 

Scaya asked her out the minute she stepped outside the Falling Night Club, and her drunk self almost cried in response. For Nesta Archeron wasn't fond of people liking her like that. And most importantly Theya, as usual, had been right.  
It was almost three o'clock when they left, and Nesta said goodbye to her friend as she got into an Uber to get home. The club was fairly close to her apartment, but she didn't want to risk walking home at this hour, and it wouldn't be too expensive.  
As she got there, Nesta paid the driver and got out, ready to buzz herself into the building when she heard someone call her name.  
He walked out of the shadow of the tree he was leaning against and into her line of sight, and she fought the urge to slap away the smirk plastered on his face—especially because she'd probably trip over herself, as drunk as she was. Cassian.  
“Hello, princess.” He said, putting a hand on the gate of her building, scanning her face. She looked lovely, dressed in a silver dress that hugged her in all the right places, her golden brown hair loose and her face adorned in light makeup. He seemed unaffected by it, though, as he took it all in with a appreciative smirk and looked right into her dark eyes. “It's a fine evening, isn't it?”  
Indeed the sky was clear and stars shone brightly over their heads, along with a big bright moon that made the windy night come alive. But she wasn't going to tell him that.  
“How did you find out where I live?” she asked him rudely, slurring her words a bit.  
His eyes danced with mirth and mischief, the hazel shining almost as much as the stars above them. “I may have asked your sister.”  
“Great. I've got a stalker now.” Nesta rolled her eyes and touched her forehead to the gate of her building, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath to steady herself.  
“Oh, I could say the same about you, princess,” he drawled out. “Everytime I go to my favorite diner, you're there.”  
“I work there.” she said plainly, not understanding, the alcohol numbing her senses. Her head was beginning to spin a little, and she really thought she oughta sit down, but she didn't feel like sinking to the dirty floor, specially in front of Cassian, so she kept on standing.  
He laughed. “I know,” he leaned against the gate and she finally turned around, standing shoulder to shoulder with him. Cassian was at least a foot taller than her, and wore that height like an armor of steel, towering over her.  
“You're tall.” she giggled suddenly, catching them both by surprise.  
“And you're drunk.” He said, smirking at her. She wanted to wipe it off his face, wanted to come up with one of her famous quick witted replies, but, Gods, her head was spinning so much, she was going to fall if she didn't—  
And then Nesta Archeron promptly threw up on his shoes.

 

Cassian held her hair back as Nesta heaved onto the toilet. He pressed soothing touches to her back with his other hand, kneeling by her side, trying not to look too closely at the contents she was filling the toilet with.   
“Ugh,” Nesta pressed her forehead against the seat and collapsed further onto the floor. He let go of her hair, but kept his hand doing lazy circles at her back—she didn't seem to mind. “I'm sorry.”  
Cassian brushed a strand of hair that had fallen on her face behind her ear and smiled a bit. “You don't have to apologize.” he scooted closer to her, bumping his shoulder with hers. “Though you should definitely invite me to your next outing.” his grin was feral as he wiggled his eyebrows. “You seem like so much fun when you're drunk.” and before she could even begin to tell him off, he added, “Well, before you start throwing up all over the place.”  
She turned to him, glare in place. “I'll have you know that I'm a very responsible drinker—”  
“Tell that to my shoes!” he laughed as her mouth opened, then closed, then opened, then closed again.  
Nesta groaned again, and it was as much an apology as it was a warning—that he shouldn't bring any of this up, not tonight, not while she hated herself enough for the both of them. His eyes softened then, all playfulness fading from them, all malice going away, because he wasn't used to seeing her so clearly, so plainly, so open—and so fragile, so self-conscious. She was beautiful, even then, even as she leaned into him for support, pale as death, sweating cold. And he didn't quite know what to say to make it all better.  
So Cassian stayed quiet, brushing her hair back and smoothing his other hand up and down her back.  
“You know,” she said weakly, some time later. Her head had found a place in between his shoulder and his neck, her body leaning fully onto his. Cassian's hand had stopped its roaming and now rested on the side of her torso, thumb tracing lazy circles, while the other did the same to her cheek. “My sister used to take care of me when we were younger.”  
Cassian looked at her, disrupting their position a bit, and Nesta let out a small noise of complaint. “Feyre?”  
“Yes.” she looked down, away from him. “I didn't want Elain to see me when I was—well, like this.” she admitted, and laughed a bit—a self-loathing sound that Cassian didn't like to hear, as much as he wanted to listen to her laugh. “She used to hold my hair back—like you. And—sing to me, so I would fall asleep.”  
“I can arrange that.” he said, smiling. And though he didn't want to stop touching her, didn't want her to leave his arms, he stood up, careful not to leave her unbalanced, and offered a hand.  
Cassian took her to the bedroom—a small, crimson painted space filled with books and scented candles—, letting her lean on him as she stumbled. He set her on the bed and she immediately settled into a ball, trying to keep the warmth in. He turned to the closet near the door and started opening drawers, until—oh, Gods. There, in front of him, were hundreds of lacy, colorful, delicate underthings, and he almost blushed as his mind began imagining each and every one of them in Nesta's curvy body with excruciating clarity. He shook his head, trying to clear it, and closed that drawer immediately. He had no place seeing this, and knew she'd be furious if she ever found out he did.  
Finally, on the last drawer, he found what he was looking for: fine linen pajamas. He remembered these. Feyre had bought them for her—though he didn't know Nesta was the sister Feyre was mentioning at the time.  
Cassian brought them to the bed, where Nesta was lying staring at the crimson ceiling and humming under her breath. “There you go,” He said, giving her the clothes he'd been holding carefully, as if they were oh-so-valuable. “I'll, um—I'll wait outside.”  
She looked at him quizzically, like she couldn't understand why he was so flustered by the topic of conversation, why the mere thought of her changing clothes made him feel like a teenager seeing breasts for the first time, but nodded and waited for him to leave. Then, she was quick to undo the zipper on the side of her dress and pull it over her head—or, well, tried to. In her own drunkenness, she got the dress stuck on her head and shoulder, and ended up sitting there—naked bellow her shoulders—, laughing her ass off.  
“Is everything okay in there?” Cassian asked from outside the room, wondering what ever in this world could've caused the spontaneous laughter. He dared not look inside, somehow knowing that what he would find inside wouldn't be appropriate for his eyes.  
“I'm—” Nesta laughed and laughed and laughed. It was a beautiful sound, one most people didn't have the pleasure of hearing—ever. It made him want to kiss her—but well, there wasn't much about her that didn't make him want to kiss her, was there? Still, her laughter—it was special, something that built empires and tore down mountains and stopped time just because it could. “I'm stuck.”  
“What?” he waited a while longer, waited for her to answer but heard only more of that beautiful, contagious laughter, so he dared a look inside—and blushed like a teenager.  
She was naked. Well, in her underwear, but—  
Fuck.  
“Cassian?” she said, laughter fading a bit from her voice, though not because of him exactly. “Are you there?”  
“Um,” he tried to think of a reason why he would've walked in, tried to come up with a plan, something to get out of the shit he was in, the excruciating shit, but came up with nothing. “Yes?”  
“Well, then,” she giggled—actually giggled—and tried again to get out of her uncomfortable situation, moaning when it didn't work once again. The sound sent shivers up Cassian's spine, raising the hairs in the nape of his neck. “Are you just going to stand there or are you going to help me?” he could almost see the raised eyebrow that came with the question, knowing Nesta as well as he did.  
“Oh.” Oh. Uncomfortably, he moved from his place at the door, one step at a time, as if he might scare her if he moved too fast. Carefully, as he reached the bed—trying not to let his gaze linger at her smooth, creamy skin, the freckles that speckled it, the lines and curves and planes of her body—he kneeled beside her and put a hand on her shoulder, steading her, trying to make the now nervous laughter fade. His other hand moved to the dress and he pried the zipper away from where it had caught on her wild honey colored locks, removing it from her body so easily she sighed—a little embarrassed sound that made him kiss her nose before he could think about what he was doing. As both of them blushed from the action—and believe me, Nesta Archeron wasn't one to blush, no matter how naked she was—Cassian cleared his throat and said, “There you go.”  
“Thank you.” she looked down, not daring to look at his face as she put on the pajamas and tucked herself into the bed, throwing the silver dress onto the ground rather then the open closet—it smelled—, promising herself that she'd deal with it tomorrow. “Will you—sing?”  
Cassian suddenly regretted leaving his guitar at his house that moment. He felt so naked without it, so vulnerable. But damn it, if there was anything he wouldn't do for this girl. And why? Why her? And why now? Five years after his fling with Morrigan, the only girl he'd ever truly felt anything for before this, and then years and years of one night stands and self hatred that burned so deep his friends couldn't even see. Only his music touched his dark soul, and until now, nobody had ever heard it.  
He opened his mouth to sing, opened it to say something from his heart, and came up with the only song that encompassed what he was feeling for her, even if she would never know it.  
Wise men say  
Only fools rush in  
But I can't help falling in love with you  
Shall I stay?  
Would it be a sin  
If I can't help falling in love with you?  
She turned on the bed to look at him, and what she saw in those deep eyes was such pain and love and so much more she didn't even know how to explain that she wondered how he did not burst from all that emotion inside of him. She made herself a note, that when she woke up, when she was feeling better and awake and sober, she would let him in. That she would let his emotions be hers as well. That they could be the ones in this song, fools or not.  
Like a river flows  
Surely to the sea  
Darling, so it goes  
Some things are meant to be  
Take my hand,  
Take my whole life, too  
For I can't help falling in love with you  
Cassian saw Nesta's eyes begin to droop, and smiled into the song. As much as he wanted her to listen, hear him and know, know somehow that these words—these words were everything, he was glad she was finally getting some sleep.  
Like a river flows  
Surely to the sea  
Darling, so it goes  
Some things are meant to be  
Take my hand,  
Take my whole life, too  
For I can't help falling in love with you  
For I can't help falling in love with you  
Nesta's eyes were closed now, and he decided he was no longer needed. He would go back to his apartment, barefooted, where his notebook awaited him, and probably write about tonight. He would go back, and time would slowly erase the traces of tonight, like it always did with the things you love.  
Cassian sighed and moved toward the door. He was almost out when he heard—  
“Cassian?”  
Something tight and hot as fire wrapped around his heart as he answered, “Yes?”  
“Don't leave.”

 

Cassian woke up to a sharp pain in his neck and sunlight shining directly into his eyes. Before he even had the chance to move or crack his stiff joints, though, he was met with Nesta's no-nonsense gaze.  
“What. Are. You. Doing. Here.” she said, making it sound more like a statement than a question. She was standing in front of him in a pair of boyfriend jeans and a black top, hands at her waist, strict look on her lovely face.  
“Well, good morning to you, too, princess.” he said, streching his arms above his head.  
“It's two o'clock.” she said matter-of-factly. “And you haven't answered my question.”  
“Which was?” Cassian knew he was treading in dangerous waters now, but he couldn't help it, he wanted to soak up every moment in this house, every moment with her. He stretched his legs in front of him, if only to annoy her further, if only to divert her attention from the current situation, and looked her over again. Her hair was wet—she must've just gotten out of the shower—and pulled up in a knot, though some strands fell from it here and there. Her freckled face was clean and bright, if a little red from a very hot shower—which brought images to his head he tried to forget.  
“What the hell are you doing in my apartment?” she said loudly, not swayed at the least by his so called charm.  
“You're the one who asked me to stay, princess.” Cassian put his arms behind his head and looked straight into those burning eyes, unafraid.  
Nesta fumed. “Did we—I mean,” she closed her mouth, trying to think of a way of saying it and not sounding particularly grossed out by the subject.  
“Have sex?” he laughed. “Just say it.” he said, eyes shining with mirth and mischief. “Honestly, woman, one would think you're a virgin the way you are with these things.”  
Nesta blushed. That was twice in the span of a day he had made her blush—what the hell was happening to her? “Well, did we?” the mere thought of them having sex brought butterflies to her stomach. She told herself they were from discontent, from anger or even lust but the truth—well, the truth was that she was nervous because she would hate for their first time to be something she didn't even remember.  
“No.” There was no mirth in his eyes now, no space to play around on a subject as serious as this one. “I don't sleep with inebriated women.” Cassian shifted in his sit, cracking his stiff neck. “That,” he crossed his legs at the ankle, like he always did. “Is called rape, princess.”  
Nesta nodded at that, thankful that at least her sister chose her friends carefully nowadays. Before—well, that was another story. “That doesn't answer my question, though.” she said, choosing her words more carefully this time. “Why did you stay?”  
“Because you needed a friend.” he answered. “And I wanted to be needed, just for a little bit.”


End file.
